


more scared than not

by weatheredlaw



Series: radio edit [6]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Baggage, Father Figures, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Language, Shovel Talk, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dude. This could be my love letter to you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	more scared than not

**Author's Note:**

> we've come back from our tangent into the past, and now we're getting emotional and shit. i think a story in this series from grif's perspective, and a little bit of love for the other reds on the catering team is in order, so you'll probably get that next. please enjoy!

Tucker tries his best to avoid Sarge.

It isn't that Sarge is particularly _mean_ to Tucker, or that he seems to dislike Tucker in any way. It isn't even that Tucker dislikes Sarge, because the guy seems pretty driven and dedicated and hardworking and all the characteristics Tucker's mother taught him a good person should have. It's just that every time Sarge is around, and no one else is, Tucker feels like he's getting a Shovel Talk. And it's starting to get awkward.

Mostly because Sarge is _so fucking mean_ to Grif.

"He's got it in for me," Grif says. "I don't know what I fucking did to piss that guy off, but he hates me."

"I think _hate_ is a strong word." They're loading some of the catering equipment into Tucker's car, which might as well have the damn logo on it, at this point, but he doesn't mind so much anymore. "It's more like he can't fucking stand you, but he's required by law to tolerate you and also not kill you."

"Oh, right. How could I have mixed up _extreme_ dislike and hate? What totally, _completely_ different concepts."

Tucker holds up his hands. "Hey man, you asked my opinion."

"Yeah? Well your opinion on this fucking sucks." Grif slams the door to the back of the car and stands on the sidewalk, bristling. He looks like a cat, Tucker muses, hackles raised, fur on end. Tucker sighs and shuts the other door, coming around to lean against the car in front of him. "I'm annoyed," Grif says.

"Uh-huh. I noticed."

"I never did _anything_ wrong. I'm good at what I do. I'm _great_ at what I do."

"You are." Tucker reaches out to pry Grif's arms away from his chest, drawing him in. "Can we go now? It's hot and I wanna order pizza and watch TV with no pants on." Grif rolls his eyes and relents, letting Tucker tip his head back and kiss his neck. "Perfect."

Tucker doesn't exactly know how to interpret his conversations with Sarge, so he doesn't bring them up. And trying to talk Grif out of being mad never goes anywhere good, so instead he talks him into blowjobs and pizza, and calls it a night.

 

 

 

"You intend on gettin' yourself a better job?" Sarge leans over to take a dishrag away from Tucker, who was, quite frankly, been using it as a security blanket. Sarge is subjecting him to another incredibly blunt conversation about Tucker's future and career choices. 

"Uh. I have a good one? Working for the government pays well, and the insurance isn't bad. Plus the pension's good when I retire. I can move up. I'm supposed to interview for a job in security systems administration next month."

"Pay better?"

"A lot better," Tucker admits. This is actually the first time he's said it out loud, mostly because he doesn't want to pass any kind of bad luck on it, and also because he isn't sure he'll get it. The worst thing is having to tell people, six months down the road, you didn't get a job you bragged you were going to get. And Tucker's a bragger. 

For some reason, he keeps that bottled up around Sarge.

"Grif used to talk about opening a restaurant." 

Tucker's surprised at this. Sarge doesn't usually talk _about_ Grif specifically, just kind of what Tucker's general intentions toward him are, or if he knows where Grif went. Sometimes he'll just swear out loud about Grif, call him some kind of idiot and then throw something at him when Grif comes back. Typical stuff. Tucker feels a little endeared, though, because there's a strange touch of _pride_ in Sarge's voice when he says it. "He'd be terrible about money, but he's a good cook."

"He's a great cook," Tucker says, because he's experienced it firsthand. His mouth waters a little at the prospect -- Grif doesn't cook much for the two of them, considering he does it on a massive scale almost every other day. But when he does, it's brilliant. Last week they had homemade polenta with meatballs and a red bell pepper marinara sauce. Or something. Tucker wrote it down in his phone so he could describe it to his mother in detail. 

Grif comes in while Tucker's imagining the two of them rolling around naked while amazing food is being cooked in the background, mortified as usual when he sees Sarge talking to Tucker. "Please leave him alone."

"Son, I will do whatever I damn well please."

"Ugh. Whatever. Donut says the happy couple is about to make some toasts, so we need to uncork the champagne and get the berries in there." Sarge gives him a nod and shoulders out the swinging door of the kitchen, barking orders to some of the hotel workers about getting their asses in gear. Grif sighs. "I'm really sorry."

"You don't have to be. He's not trying to kill me."

"I'm shocked, actually." 

Tucker shrugs. "It was a good talk. He told me--" He stops and points. "You have red wine _all over you_."

"Yes. I noticed."

"Oh my god." 

"Do _not_ take pictures of this."

"I have to. Grif, _I have to_. We need to treasure this moment forev -- _don't put my phone in the punch bowl!_ "

 

 

 

Tucker spends a lot of time thinking about the things Sarge says to him. How Grif went to culinary school in France -- something Grif's never mentioned. Or how he and Simmons have actually written up full blown business plans about the restaurant they'd open together -- another thing Grif has failed to bring up. Or how Grif won them a prize two years ago with a caramel apple pie at the state fair -- something he's never bothered to cook for Tucker which, at this juncture, is just insulting.

Or how Grif used to get kind of weepy at weddings until he dated someone who kind of ruined the whole thing for him. 

Tucker suspects that Sarge mostly works while slightly inebriated, or maybe it's just his general demeanor. He was apparently a cook during the Gulf War, and started out as a teenager peeling mountains of potatoes in the late seventies, eventually getting promoted full time. He tells Tucker that his kitchen got bombed in Kuwait, and they sent him home and never asked for him back. 

He says all this in short, punctuated statements between work, making Tucker peel and core apples, or put replacement corks in half-used wine bottles. Grif is embarrassed when he finds out Tucker is doing manual labor for Sarge _for free_ , but Tucker points out he's basically been delivering their supplies since they started dating.

"That's different. I give you head. Sarge gives you lectures."

"True," Tucker concedes, but he doesn't stop doing things Sarge asks him to do, mostly because it's kind of nice.

Tucker never knew his dad. Sarge is the furthest thing from paternal, that's for damn sure, but there's something about his demeanor and the way he holds himself that reminds Tucker of the way dads would stand on open house night in school -- slightly protective and falsely apathetic. 

"Grif's an idiot," Sarge says, his voice touched with the faintest hints of affection. "But he's a good kid."

"Sir, I have no intention of compromising Grif's...character. Or whatever."

"Yeah, well. It better stay that way." Tucker doesn't understand how one guy can be so visibly annoyed by a person and defend them all in the same breath. 

Tucker's breath catches in his throat when he realizes that Sarge thinks this thing he and Grif has is a Forever Thing. 

He wonders when he started giving off that impression.

And he wonders if that's what it really is.

 

 

 

Tucker hangs around after an event and helps Grif load a few things, listening to him grumble about Sarge being a dick and Donut spilling an entire plate of canapés and Simmons being a fucking know it all. "I'm hungry," he mutters. 

"Wanna get ramen? From that noodle bar thing?"

Grif shakes his head. "Let's go to my place, I'll cook you something." 

Tucker suddenly feels something a little different attached to those words, but he does what he's told because there's no way he's missing out on this tonight. Grif asks him if he wants something that sounds really fucking complicated to Tucker, but apparently isn't. He isn't allowed to touch anything when Grif's focusing on this, and Tucker's come to realize it's kind of a therapy for him. That when Grif gets stressed or upset, he cooks too much food and sends it home with Tucker, or makes him give it to Caboose and Church. Watching him now, with everything Sarge has told him behind it, makes Tucker feel something else.

When Grif puts the plate of chicken curry in front of him, Tucker feels like he's being handed a love letter.

Tucker stands and reaches out, pulling Grif in. "Hey." Grif looks exhausted, leaning against the counter, like he might fall if it wasn't there. Tucker pulls him to the table, sets him in front of his own plate and goes to get his own. "You eat." 

"I'm going to."

"I know, I just..." Tucker gets his own plate and sits down. "You work really hard."

"We both do."

"I know that. But, like. You work _really_ hard, Grif." Grif scowls, because he hates it when people talk about him like that. He's carefully crafted a persona of apathy, trying so hard to look like he hasn't tried at all. "Sarge told me you wanted to open your own restaurant."

" _What?_ That's what you guys have been talking about?"

"Dude, he's basically been telling me for weeks now that if I, like, break your heart no one's gonna find my body."

"I can't right now. I can't listen to this."

Tucker shakes his head. "No, I'm serious. He's like _proud_ of you or something man. He wants you to succeed or some shit." 

"Sarge hates me."

"I think he hates everyone," Tucker says carefully. Grif shrugs, because it's pretty much true, shoveling food into his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me this stuff?"

"What _stuff?_ What, you wanna know about my lame ass idea to have a restaurant? That I thought I was good enough to do that, and the loan officer fucking _laughed me out of the bank?_ You know how that feels? When people who don't even know you don't think you're good enough?" He puts his fork down. "I didn't tell you because I didn't know if you were gonna feel the same way."

Tucker doesn't know what to say to that. He didn't realize he'd made Grif feel that way, that _anyone_ had made him feel that way. "Dude. Why would I ever laugh at you?"

"I don't know. I just...I used to want certain things and people...people take that from you, you know?"

"No. I don't. Because I love you. And I would never fucking do that to you."

"Yeah, well that's you. You're a good person." Grif pauses. "Wait. What?"

"I said I love you. And I would never take anything from you."

"You don't love me," Grif says carefully.

Tucker shrugs. "Feels like I do."

"You don't."

"Okay dude, now I'm just getting mad. Why are we doing this if that's, like, not the point? Why are we still here if I don't love you? It's been months. You met my mother. Sarge thinks we're going to be together _forever_. He's basically giving me your hand in marriage, and you're telling me I _don't_ love you."

"Yes."

"Well, you're wrong. I mean if you don't love me, that's fine. I'm willing to ride this one-sided emotional rollercoaster with you."

Grif shakes his head. "I didn't say that."

Tucker's heart skips a beat. Which is _silly_. "Okay. So what does that mean?"

"It means I love you."

 

 

 

Tucker decides, after a night of admissions and secret telling and lengthy makeout sessions which lead to _stellar_ hand jobs, that he needs to just confront this Sarge thing head on. He volunteers to help out on a Sunday with a pretty big event, knowing he'll be alone with the guy at least once or twice. Tucker gets stuck on dish duty, meaning he has to think about having an emotionally charged conversation with his boyfriend's father figure while his fingers are so pruny they may never recover.

But he's pretty fucking dedicated.

"You used too much soap," Sarge says, coming into the kitchen and looking at Tucker, who has bubbles on his shoes and in his hair.

"Yeah, that's become pretty clear to me." Sarge makes some kind of noise that Tucker is going to assume is laughter, and decides to go for it. "So, uh. You've told me some pretty interesting stuff about Grif." Sarge doesn't look at him or acknowledge that a conversation is happening, so Tucker just keeps going. "I, uh. Well." It feels like there's a tennis ball stuck in his throat, Jesus. "I just, you know. I wanted to--"

"Son. If you've got somethin' to say to me, then you better damn well say it."

Tucker swallows and goes for it. "Grif's really important to me. And I want to make this work. Maybe for forever. And I want you to know that you seem pretty important to him, too, and I promise I'll be good to him and won't upset him too bad or anything like that." Tucker feels _stupid._ "So. There's that."

Sarge hasn't stopped arranging some kind of delicately shaped cracker thing on a set of trays, but he does know, angling himself toward Tucker, who must look ridiculous, standing there with his arms covered in bubbles, every inch of the front of his shirt wet or about to get wet. All Sarge says to him is, "Good," and keeps arranging crackers.

" _That's it?_ You give me the shovel talk for weeks on end, and when I finally pick up what you're putting down, all you can say is _good?_ "

"Seems like it."

"Jesus _Christ_."

"Tucker, I think Grif's a lazy son of a bitch who could do a lot more than he does right now. And I think you're the guy who's gonna help him do that."

"But I'm a lazy son of a bitch, too," Tucker says.

"That's okay. I've got faith in you both. Buncha idiots," he mutters, before taking the trays out the door.

Tucker thinks it might be the nicest thing Sarge has ever said to him.

Grif comes in just in time to see Tucker looking a little bit dumbfounded and groans. "Oh my God, are you two still talking about your feelings?"

"Yes."

"I hate both of you."

"Uh-huh."

Grif looks into the sink.

"You used too much--" 

Tucker takes both hands out of the water and drops soap right onto Grif's head.

 

 

"Tucker, I fuckin' hate surprises."

"Okay, but hear me out."

"That's all I can _do_ , you blindfolded me, dipsh-- _ow!_ Don't _pinch_ me!"

"Don't be a dick." Tucker leads him down the sidewalk until they get to the building he spotted on his way to work the morning before. It's small, it isn't much, but it's _something_ and he knows it's a good idea. He knows it's a _great_ idea. He pulls off the blindfold. "Okay." 

Grif blinks, fumbling for his sunglasses and sliding them on. "Totally unnecessary, why--" He looks at the building. "Oh."

"The landlord told me it has all the hookups. You'd have to buy the equipment you needed, but...Simmons showed me the business plan you guys wrote up, and I think this place would be pretty perfect. I mean, location is good. Not to sound like an expert, but I totally googled this area for a good fifteen minutes and everything around here is pretty successful, so."

"Tucker."

"Hey, I didn't _buy_ it or anything. But you gotta stop being freaked out about this at some point."

"Tucker."

"I feel like we could do this together, you know? I mean, I'm a lazy piece of shit, and you're a lazy piece of shit. But we work hard where we need to, and I think we could--"

" _Tucker_."

Tucker stops talking and shoves his hands in his pockets. This could only go one of two ways and right now it's really a toss-up. "Sorry," he mutters.

"Tucker. Why are you doing this?"

"Dude. This could be my love letter to you."

" _What?_ "

"Okay, sorry, that's kind of an inside joke with myself, but like. Seriously. You're really good at what you do. You deserve to get what you always wanted." 

Grif takes a step back, inspecting the building. It used to be some trendy hipster spot, but the owner got big and moved to a larger location, opened up a couple more places. Tucker doesn't know why, he just has a good feeling about it, knows that if Grif does something here, it'll blow up, it'll do something for him that he desperately needs. 

"Tucker. This would be big."

"It would be."

"Like, _really_ big."

"Life changing," Tucker adds. "Kind of like getting hitched, but with just the food part. No marriage."

"You'd commit to this."

"Hey." Tucker puts his hands on Grif's neck and brings him in close. He knows how they both feel about the PDA, about getting mushy and shit in public. But right now, he doesn't care. Tucker tips his forehead against Grif's and smiles. "I'm committing to _you_. And if this is part of it, then it's part of it. But I wanna be with you. Kind of for forever."

"That's a long ass time."

"It is. Which is why we better figure out what we're gonna do with ourselves."

Grif huffs a laugh and grips him back. "Think this is it?"

"I think it's something," Tucker admits. He takes a chance and kisses him. Grif doesn't hesitate to kiss back. "I love you."

Grif laughs again, thumb stroking Tucker's cheek. He closes his eyes. "Yeah, I can tell."


End file.
